Jimmie said, “Yeah.”
“Nice kids, this generation! Brave, dependable, responsible, calm, sane, intelligent—wonderful!”
“You belong to it. You ought to know.”
“I’m a poor kike who worked my way through medical school after working it through college! I like people—decent ones—and I like medicine! I don’t like people that murder other people just because somebody is going to take away their candy!”
Jimmie smiled a little. “Maybe I can chivvy that lad into the army, someday, yet.
Maybe—maybe— he’ll payoff.”
“He won’t get in the army!”
“He will if I make him,” Jimmie answered fiercely.
“No. There’ll be a report of all this. You know. Nothing that your family, or the draft board, will ever see. Something only the army will see. A couple of army doctors, anyhow. They’re trying hard to weed out the screwballs, this time, before they demand any hard work from ’em. Your brother’ll be sent to camp, maybe, by the local board. He’ll come back—without knowing why.”
Jimmie thought for a while. He smiled again. “That might do him a lot of good.”